


Falcon Business

by Aurae



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Exchange Assignment, First Time, For Science!, Human Experimentation, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Partially Clothed Sex, Peter is in waaaaaay over his head, Sex Toys, Smut Swap 2019, Urine, and it’s his own damn fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-11-09 06:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae
Summary: “Are you quite certain?” asked Nightingale, eyeing the remarkably iridescent orange liquid in the unremarkably ordinary pair of shot glasses with no small amount of caution.“No,” I replied, shrugging, “and that’s the entire point of the exercise, isn’t it?”





	Falcon Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plutonianshores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/gifts).



`>>OBJECTIVE: To determine the effective properties of confiscated ITEM#66782.`

 

Anybody else’s governor would’ve demanded a complete MPS SAU Health and Safety Risk Assessment before proceeding, and I’m reasonably certain the outcome of such a tiresome pile of procedural paperwork would not have worked in my favour. Fortunately, however, DCI Thomas Nightingale wasn’t anybody else’s governor…

He was mine.

Fortunately. Like I said.

“Are you quite certain?” asked Nightingale, eyeing the remarkably iridescent orange liquid in the unremarkably ordinary pair of shot glasses with no small amount of caution.

“No,” I replied, shrugging, “and that’s the entire point of the exercise, isn’t it?”

The iridescent orange liquid in question was the newest, hottest thing this side of the _demi monde_. Supposedly, it was a potent aphrodisiac. I’d already sent a sample in to Controlled Substances, and according to their results it was undiluted own-label orange squash (Sainsburys, which figured, given the colour) and edible glitter, neither of which are controlled substances (although maybe the squash _should_ be). They couldn’t explain the iridescence.

The iridescence proved that it was magic, at least according to the quarter-fey purveyor from whom I had confiscated the substance currently in the glass in Nightingale’s hand, and I was inclined to believe her. But we coppers are suspicious SOBs, and I was rather less inclined to believe the liquid would actually work as advertised, and if it didn’t, that would be consumer fraud.

So, I’d devised a little experiment to ascertain the truth of the matter.

“Bottoms up,” I said.

“Very well. We shall do this your way.”

 

`>>METHOD: Self-administration via oral ingestion of seller-recommended dosage (x2).`

 

Since “my way” involved testing the suspected aphrodisiac on ourselves and observing the effects, we were in the Folly’s (previously) unused ground floor lounge and not, say, in the coach house or either of our second floor bedrooms. If this whole scheme went tits up, I reasoned, the location was readily accessible to emergency services. This also meant no one would be be cleaning the, err, whatever off the surfaces of an area otherwise seeing regular use.

The lounge featured several antique armchairs and an oak writing desk. I’d put a stack of foolscap and several pens on the desk for notetaking purposes and a box of vibrators and other assorted sex toys from Bev’s secret stash in the seat cushion of one of the armchairs—for recreational purposes, obviously.

I checked my wristwatch and made a note of the time. 10:43 AM. The suspected aphrodisiac had tasted exactly like undiluted orange squash and edible glitter, and apart from the sugar rush, I wasn’t yet feeling anything. So, I settled into one of the armchairs to wait for something, or anything, to happen. Nightingale was already seated in another one of the chairs, arms and legs crossed. I didn’t have to ask to know that he wasn’t feeling anything either.

The effect was delayed, but when it did hit, precisely 42 minutes and 33 seconds after ingestion, it hit like a sack of bricks, and I went from naught to tearing a seam so fast I couldn’t measure it.

“Whoa, do you feel that?” I asked, and without waiting for an answer, I unzipped the front of my trousers and dug out my cock. I was hard enough to hang a flag and already wet at the tip. I stroked myself, pinching the foreskin over the tip to spread the moisture before retracting it again. The pleasure was sharp as a razor. I felt lightheaded.

I decided I wanted some artificial assistance. I lurched to my feet and, my trousers pooling awkwardly around my ankles, crab-walked over to the toybox. “I think there’s a vibrating cock ring in here somewhere…ah yeah…” Yeah, there it was, fully charged. Perfect. Leave it to Bev! “Hey, do you want to try a—”

Too late, I realized I’d completely forgotten to check in with Nightingale.

 

`>>FINDINGS: ITEM#66782 begins to affect male human physiology as advertised within 45 minutes of ingestion.`

 

One second, there was a cock ring buzzing in my hand, the next I was being thrown over the side of the desk, face down, pens and paper swept to the floor, forgotten, and my boxer briefs—nice 100 per cent cotton ones from Marks & Spencer, I’ll have you know—were being ripped off, and a hard, _very_ hard, cock was being shoved inexpertly between my buttocks.

Hmm. The aphrodisiac was making someone very aggressive. How odd. It wasn't making _me_ feel like that. Though, come to think of it, his aggression was sooooo hooooot…

Somewhere behind and above me, Nightingale growled as his cockhead caught on the wrinkled pucker of my arsehole—did he have experience? I sure as hell didn’t, but you never would’ve guessed that from the way my sphincter muscle opened like the front door to a housewarming party. Preparation, you ask? Who needs preparation? Nightingale slid freely into me like I’d been spreading my legs every day for the last five years.

He rammed home, lifting me clear off my feet. I could feel his balls crushed against my perineum; I could feel him in my _throat_. We groaned in unison.

Then, he began to thrust, and I may have forgotten to breathe for awhile because I remember remarkably little of what happened next…except the fast, strong rhythm of his thrusts, the long, sweet slide in and out, in and out, in and out, and his hands on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, bruising but not breaking the skin.

I was going to be wearing the imprints of Nightingale’s hands. That one coherent thought was enough all on its own to make me come, limbs shaking, howling as my cock shot its load.

My orgasm made Nightingale come too…and he never stopped. He fucked me straight through it.

 

`>>FINDINGS (cont.): Highly variable effects upon subjects are noted (see APPENDIX). The reason is not known.`

 

How long had we been going at it? Minutes? Hours? _Days?!_ I couldn’t remember, couldn’t think.

The only thing I could do was _feel_. Even after we’d climaxed that first time, we never went soft, and the need, the craving for each other’s bodies, never abated. It just kept going and going and going, and so, so did we, with Nightingale taking and me giving him my all.

I’d put on the vibrating cock ring at some point, and the vibrations meant that I didn’t even need to touch myself, which left my hands free, which was good, very good indeed, because my arms were thrown over my head, and I was clinging to the desk for dear life as Nightingale pounded into me. Out, and terrible emptiness, then in, and unbelievable fullness, over and over and over until nothing existed but the two of us, the livid marks of his hands on my skin, the intoxicating scent of our sex permeating the room, the squelching, slapping sounds of flesh on flesh—and orgasm after orgasm after annihilating orgasm.

It shouldn’t have been physiologically possible; it had to be magic. Had to be.

“Oh God…P-Peter, I’m so sorry, I c-can’t, _I can’t stop_ —” moaned Nightingale lowly. He was ejaculating anew, hips twisting, gyrating; fresh semen was collecting on the base of my scrotum. He’d fitted his chest against my back, the shirt he hadn’t bothered removing incongruously starched and crisp, and he nuzzled me, his tongue warm against my earlobe.

“Whaaa…?” _What are you apologising for?_ I’d meant to say, but I couldn’t quite summon the necessary words before _it_ began to happen.

Hot liquid was flooding my insides, filling my belly till I felt ready to burst. I whimpered, uncomprehending, and then that hot liquid with its acrid stench began to trickle out of me, and to _pour_ out of me, rolling in thick rivulets down my thighs and around Nightingale’s plunging cock and soiling the trousers still tangled about my ankles, and my shoes, which was when I realised: urine. He was urinating in me. While he was fucking me.

Maybe it was because I was under the influence of the aphrodisiac, but whatever the reason, I wasn’t disgusted. I was just incredibly turned on, delighted by this transgressive act of possession. He was like an animal marking its territory.

Now I belonged to him as well.

I convulsed and wailed and came yet again.

 

`>>OUTCOME: Additional research is required before any definitive conclusions may be drawn _._`

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on April 4, 2019.


End file.
